


Scav Hunt

by Tyellas



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gastown economics, Gen, Implied Underage, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It Gets Better, Mythic!Max, Post-Mad Max: Fury Road, The Great Goanna Spirit, Wasteland spirituality, also some plumbers and electricians, why no OC road warriors here have some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 01:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyellas/pseuds/Tyellas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Gastown man burns to know: <i>who killed the People Eater?</i> Rumor says it's a feral scav, someone lost in the Citadel's crowds. He bribes one of the Wretched to help him pin down the killer, and gets more than he bargained for…</p><p>A visit to a post-Fury Road Citadel and a glimpse of Mythic!Max.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gastown Currency

**Author's Note:**

> There are the stories we write for our fellow fans, and the stories we write for ourselves. This one, I wrote for me. It's a ramble through a Citadel dealing with the aftermath of one of the worst men in the Wasteland, the People Eater, and one of the best, Max Rockatansky.
> 
> It's also packed with my OCs. Silence has his backstory [here (a chapter of a longer work)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4515567/chapters/10693409) and Rabbit has her own tale, [Desert Faces.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4591761/chapters/10839572)

A Gastown delegation had arrived at the Citadel’s dim, stony conference room. The youngest of them pulled out chairs for the Gastown leaders to take seats, but didn’t sit down, himself. He stood askew from their bodyguards, though he was dressed like them in gray and leather. He knew he belonged nowhere. He was the People Eater’s abandoned human toy, with no name left but Silence.

Gastown was here to negotiate a raid. A handful of War Boys, surviving the Fury Road, had chosen a death cult over the Citadel’s new regime. After being chained at the People Eater’s feet for five years, Silence understood Gastown’s side perfectly. The strays were disturbing the Wasteland. It was bad for business. A shared raid would show the Wasteland the new Citadel, led by women, was as powerful as the old one.

Silence didn’t care about the politics. For a long time, after the People Eater had ordered his tongue cut out, he hadn’t cared about much of anything. Still, he’d pleaded to come along to the Citadel. There was something he had to have, here. He burned to know: _who had killed the People Eater?_

The Citadel had let everyone know that Imperator Furiosa, herself, had ripped off the Immortan's face. After the Bullet Farmer had pursued Furiosa, to be found blind, throat-shot, and dead, the Wasteland gave her credit for that kill, too. The People Eater's death was obscured by road war blood and fire. The survivors had all seen the People Eater's traveling oil refinery explode, but, intent on their own survival, hadn't picked up many details. Most rumors agreed: it had been one of the Imperator’s adopted scavs or feral warriors, probably set up for life at the Citadel, drinking aqua-cola and eating greens. Silence had to meet them. He wasn’t sure what he would do when he did. Beg to be their apprentice? Offer sexual favors? Stab them for taking his own revenge from him? He’d know, he was sure, once he looked them in the eye.

Now that he was here, the Citadel wasn’t helping. Everyone here looked feral to Silence. The place was vast, crude, swarming with Wretched below, raw War Boys and clear-eyed women inside.

When the leaders were settled, Silence slithered behind two older Gastown guards, sweaty in ventilator masks. Silence was almost as tall as the male guard, if half his breadth. He loosened his own mask to keep it from marking his straight nose, then brushed back a stray blonde wave. His tight gray eyes scoured the Citadel negotiators.

There was the severe, one-armed Imperator Furiosa. Beside her glowered her war second, muscular, scarred and lumped beneath War Boy white and dark glasses. The war second had the skills to dispatch the People Eater through his defences. But the rumors about the feral killer had a ring of truth. The pair next to them couldn’t kill a fly unless they talked it to death: brilliant, stunted Corpus Collosus and the ancient tattooed History Man. Shining between these grotesques were two of the Sisters, the full-life breeders freed from the Immortan. One of them, hair vivid as fire, turned and asked their own guards something. Two War Boys fell over each other to help her.

Silence felt himself curdle with jealousy. They had all suffered the use of corrupt old warlords. But in their Vault, unlike Silence, they hadn’t been alone: they’d had each other. Then, the Imperator had traitored the Immortan to sweep them away and defend them. They’d seized their freedom, fought together, and won the Wasteland’s respect.

Silence had been a locked-down possession when his owner became a charred corpse on the Fury Road. As he expected, he was counted chattel, handed over to one of the Gastown leaders. She had her own plans, and a use for someone silent in her debt. The Gastown indenture she’d offered was his best chance to keep drinking aqua-cola and visiting Gastown’s flesh mechanic. He had no idea if the leering sawbone’s doses would keep him from rotting from the inside out, like the People Eater.

Until that happened, he was a handsome young face, serving and waiting. Or a Gastown mask, watching and listening. He’d delivered poison several times. Despite those successes, the older guards barely deigned to speak to him. Right now, they were ignoring him to watch a third young woman. She was drawing a detailed map on a rare blackboard, a task that showed off smooth arms and a sun-warmed back, crossed by a narrow fabric band. The male guard dared to mutter, “Mmhmm. Citadel full lives, am I right?”

The other guard socked his arm. She whispered roughly, “Keep it in your pipes. I wanna see a Milking Mother. One of the ones so shine the Immortan didn't let 'em go. I hear Corpus there keeps the water running but they say where it goes. Is she one of 'em?”

“Nah, too little. She would've been Wretched.”

At _Wretched_ , the drawing woman glanced over one shoulder, treating them to large, dark eyes over a shabby leather mask. Then she extracted more chalk from a pouch on her tool-heavy belt. The male guard stood up straighter. The woman growled, “Told you to shut it. Tools and mask, she’s somebody. Same here as in Gastown.”

Silence had snapped to attention. One of the Wretched, at this meeting? She'd know which ferals in the mob were the Imperator’s pets. And her blackboard work had included words – she could read and write.

He could use her.

One of the Sisters went to the head of the paired conference tables and began to talk. Silence kept his eyes on the drawing woman. Finishing her work, she slipped behind the Sister for a quick word with Corpus and History. Silence watched as she wrote a few words on a hand-sized slate, adding it to her belt. Corpus handed her a piece of carved white bone on a cord, which she dropped around her neck. Then, she traced around the back of the room, to the double doors behind the Gastown guards. Silence heard the doors creak open behind him. Slipping backwards from his post, he snaked out, too.

He walked right into a Citadel guard. Not a War Boy, still painted pale with clay, capped with bleached dreadlocks, glaring distrustfully. He held a metal bar as a weapon. A small, flat signal drum leaned on the wall behind him. Before he could use either, Silence grabbed the guard’s upper arm, then pointed at the departing Wretch. The guard said, “What’s up in there? What do they want?” Silence zipped his fingers across his lips and pointed a thumb back at the room full of leaders. “Secret, huh? I can believe it.” He yelled, “Rabbit! This guy’s got some message or somethin’!”

The Wretch paused, next to a slit letting daylight in. Silence ran up to her. Her name was Rabbit and this was his chance to make a deal with her.

The halted woman turned to him. She was as young as he was, short enough that she looked up at him. “What ith it? Do they neeth more help inthide?”

Silence held up his left hand and mimed writing on it with his right. “Oh! Another metthage?” She wasn’t right, but this got the little slate and a nub of chalk into Silence’s hands.

He flipped the slate and wrote on the back,

_need your help barter deal for it_

She was shorter than he was. Good: she was less likely to turn on him. Like everyone in Gastown, he’d heard about the hungry, ruthless Wretched. Silence watched the top of her head as she read. Her light brown hair was thicker at the roots, thin and sun-battered at the ends. When she looked back up, over her mask, her dark eyes had a hint of amber, like fine petroleum. “Do you talk?”

The chalk in his fingers lied easily about that as he wrote.

_lost my voice in battle_

_need to know which Citadel feral killed People Eater_

When Silence handed the slate back, he dug out a handful of old coins, rehammered with the Gastown seal: guzzoline tokens. He held them out to her as his offer for her help.

Rabbit eyed them with moderate interest. He had to lean close to hear her soft, mask-muffled voice. “Are thothe for the killer?”

Silence shook his head and pointed at her with his free hand.

Rabbit picked one up, dubiously. “What are they for?” Silence took back the slate to write an explanation. By the time they understood each other, he’d stopped registering her lisp: just one more Citadel difference. It was a bigger problem that, after his scrimping and his trouble to get there, she was indifferent to enough guzz tokens to fuel a vehicle.

Rabbit’s worn old mask caught his eye. Inspired, he whipped off his own respirator mask. It was a Before-time one, sleek, black and red, with the coveted _MADE IN CHINA_ label. He held it out to her.

Her eyes went huge as she gasped. “If I help you find who killed him, I can have THAT mask?”

Silence felt like an idiot, nodding this much.

Rabbit traced her fingers over his words. “Which Citadel feral. There’s the fighters…I know who to ask!” she said, brightly. “Do you want to go find them right now?”

He had her. With a smirk, he put the mask in his left hand, and held out his right for her to shake.

Tentatively, she reached for him. Her calloused little hand had a strong grip. “Deal!” she said. They shook.

Silence fastened the mask on his belt: there for her to earn. Rabbit gave his face a wondering look. “Why do you wear a mask when you … never mind. Come on. The fighters are all in the War Tower.” She started off, taking a turn into the heart of the Citadel, and he followed.

Rabbit seemed to like having a listener. She nattered easily to Silence as they coursed the Citadel’s stone corridors. “If you get thirsty let me know. I work with the pumps team. I can get you water any time you want,” she said, with proud emphasis. “Do you want some? There isn’t as much water in the War Tower.”

Silence would have hesitated – taking water could put you under all kinds of obligations - if they didn’t already have a deal. In Gastown and the Wasteland alike, a deal was serious. You were allies until the deal was done. He nodded. She ducked into a dark niche and emerged with a chipped mug of water. He had aqua-cola most of the time. This, fresh from the well, was incredible, soft and cold. You could get addicted to this. Just in time, a half-forgotten Wasteland rule surfaced in his memory. He offered her the mug before he finished it. She seemed to understand, but shook her head amiably. “It’s all for you.” He flung the rest down his throat before she could change her mind.

They came to a high, bright aperture where Rabbit had to flash her carved-bone pass. In the back of the space, a handful of Wretched stamped and pulled on a small, complicated treadmill. A shuttle car creaked into the space and disgorged some Citadel travelers. One of them was a draped Milking Mother, out and about, her own slate in her hand. She was big, like his unlamented master, but all the guzz tokens in Gastown couldn’t have bought the People Eater her radiant health. Silence turned to watch her. Rabbit caught him staring and sighed, “I know, so shine.” Then, she urged him into the shuttle.

Silence watched as the Wretched changed around, and the shuttle began to move out over the span between the Citadel towers. He never saw other slaves without thinking that their work would have been better than what he had done. It did not occur to him that the Milking Mother had been a slave, too, or that the treadmill stampers might be free themselves.

Rabbit encouraged him to look down at the ground, sickeningly far below. “There are the houses we’re building now. I could be in a house but I have a room inside the Citadel,” she said, proud again.

He edged away from the window and its hundred and fifty meter drop. Claiming the slate again, Silence recalled Gastown’s talk on the way to the Citadel. He wrote, _defense?_

“The Wretched gangs look after it on the ground now. The Lepers and the Mongrels. Those who can’t fight, can watch. The History Man says we Wretched were nobodies to the Immortan, but now, in the new Citadel, we’re all somebody.”

Silence tilted his head, interested. The Imperator’s investment in the Wretched was paying off if she had a tough new milita to replace the lost War Boys. Giving up his mask was worth it for this intelligence alone.

The shuttle clanked into the darkness of the Siege Tower. They crossed this tower inside, on an open rolling trolley through an unlit tunnel. Beside him, the agreeable young woman hummed the way Wastelanders did when they meant to be friendly. _Here I am, not sneaking up on you, I’m over here._ He shoved the vague memory away, pained. Finally, they entered the third tower, the War Tower.

The War Tower air still had the luxurious feel of Citadel humidity from the agriculture above. Without his respirator on, Silence could smell its additional tang of bodies and guzzoline. Rabbit led Silence down another dark, declining tunnel. At the bottom, she paused. The Treadmill bay was in front of them, a rough-hewn cave vivid with hard sunlight, metal bangs, and men’s shouts.

The noise made Rabbit shrink into herself and grip her carved-bone pass. She gazed up at Silence as if he was the guard he was trying to be, the fighter he’d lied about being. Like he was somebody. “At least one of the ferals is in here. Could you – could you walk beside me?”

With a gesture of agreement, he squared his lean shoulders. If this went well, he’d have his answer soon.

Together, they left the tunnel.


	2. Citadel Ferals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the War Tower, Rabbit asks six feral fighters if they know who killed the People Eater. Meanwhile, Silence blackmails, gambles, and tries to patch wordburgers together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My OC indulgences continue! The six feral fighters here are recruited in [chapter 11 of _Gastown Nights_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4515567/chapters/11075828), to try and make up for the Citadel's War Boy shortfall after the Fury Road. Jumper in the Wire Box and his War Pup have their own tale about being trans War Boys: [Mods Day.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4097674/chapters/9240652)

The Treadmill bay was where the Gastown party had entered the Citadel. Silence glanced around its hustle, stiffening at the sight of War Boys. He’d learned to hate the taste of War Boys’ clay when the People Eater used him as human currency.  The remaining War Boys seemed to be clustering here for a semblance of the old Citadel, near their precious V8s. Silence curled his lip. The more they clung to their engines, the more they stayed in Gastown's debt.

Rabbit led them past the parked Gastown vehicles to a second bay. At the opening, a massive pale-skinned man was waiting. Rabbit said to Silence, “He’s the first.” Silence didn’t need her to explain further. Gastown knew the Citadel had welcomed in more ferals than the Wretched. They needed fighters to take the place of the depleted War Boys. This bruiser was evidently one of them. His eyes were crossed with intense concentration. He had a pistol on his belt, and an improvised mattock in his hands. Twice, he rubbed a scarred dent that ran up one temple.

Rabbit entered his line of sight and waved, carefully. “Hello, Moo.”

Moo frowned at her and spoke slowly. “Yer not the Knowing. Not ‘Mperator. No bike for you! No car!”

Rabbit didn’t waste enunciation. “I don’t need a car. Moo, did you kill the People Eater?”

“Di’nt kill Peeps. Di’nt kill nobody inna long time. In…” He scrunched his muddy brown eyes, rubbed his scar again. “A long time. I likes bikes and cars. I look after ‘em. Guard.”

"Do you know who did?"

Moo’s reply was circular. "I was hit inna head. Out there." He pointed to the light, towards the Wasteland. "I was tryna' do a thing and a guy wanna stop me. He was mad. He hit me. Maybe he got mad an’ killed Peeps too."

"You go ‘way now. No more distracting!” Moo looked behind him, in case someone had snuck in to try and seize a vehicle. They both darted out of mattock range, fast. Silence wondered who he had been before his head injury. Most Wastelanders still wouldn’t dare to use the People Eater’s nickname.

Meanwhile, Rabbit tilted her head. “We’re lucky. I hear another.” Silence flinched as she touched his elbow to draw him along. She went to the back of the main bay. A cluster of the War Boys and War Pups were watching a sparring match.

The sparring match was weird enough that they approached unobserved. Three lanky War Boys, about Silence's age, were squaring off against a grinning Wasteland warrior. Every point on the warrior that could be pierced bristled with metal. The rest of his body was covered in tattooed scales. He laughed maniacally, showing teeth filed to points, as he brushed off the War Boys’ attempts to take him down. To one side, a fully grown War Boy yelled, “Come on, ain’t gonna let Lizard Boy win, are you?”

Rabbit, daringly, touched the War Boy on his elbow and lifted her pass. “I need to ask the fighter a thing.”

The War Boy looked at her pass. “Mph. If it’s for Corpus, I guess. What d’you want to know that you’re interrupting training?”

She looked down, abashed, then pointed to the fighter. “Before he came here, did he kill the People Eater?”

“Huh. That is a good one.” The War Boy raised his voice. “Oxidative Damage! Did you kill the People Eater on the Fury Road?”

The reptilian fighter shouted, “THAT WAS NOT ME! THAT WAS A GOOD KILL THOUGH! THE GREAT GOANNA SPIRIT WILL SEND THAT WARRIOR MANY LIZARDS!” He brought his arms together so that two attacking War Boys collided. “THE GOANNA SPIRIT SENDS ME VICTORY!”

The War Boy sighed. “Sweet sparkplugs, not more of this. Get going so he’ll shut up. Another feral's helping out in the Wire Box. Name's Ballard. Ask him.” They returned to the tunnel. Silence decided that, if these were the Imperator’s feral recruits, Gastown wasn’t missing much: more valuable information.

As they entered, Rabbit intoned, “May the Great Goanna Spirit find us the feral,” then looked up at Silence, eyes narrow with mischief. Silence put his hands together as if for a Wasteland prayer and rolled his own eyes. Rabbit giggled, and tapped his elbow again. This time, he smiled instead of flinching.

Soon, Rabbit detoured, turning left several times, into a different space in the rock. This room was a triple-high box, both a store room and a workshop. Impressively, it was lit with real electric bulbs and stuffed with wiretech. A dissected machine on a table was attended by three males: a white-clay Repair Boy with an apron covering his chest, his miniature in the form of a War Pup, and an unpainted man with a dark cap of hair. The last one looked up with grey eyes, startling against brown skin, and a lower face wrapped in a ragged scarf.

“’Sup, Rabbit?” asked the Repair Boy.

"Hi, Jumper." Rabbit pointed at the unpainted man. “Is this Ballard? Who used to be a feral?”

“That’s me. Ruthless son of the Wasteland,” Ballard said.

“Did you kill the People Eater?”

Ballard’s eyes crinkled over his hidden smile. “That’s not me. Sorry. I'd put my barter on one of my fellow, ah, ferals." Silence narrowed his eyes at the man’s accent. If this Ballard was from the Wasteland, he, himself, was a virgin.

The War Pup hopped up to Rabbit. “I lotht my fronthh toothths and now I talk like you. Wanna thee?”

Rabbit was charmed. She waved off the Repair Boy's apologies and went down on her knees, peering into the eager pup’s mouth.

Silence cut his eyes back at Ballard’s scarf-wrapped face. He knew now that this was unnecessary, in the stone-shielded air of the Citadel. Silence caught Ballard’s eye. Very deliberately, he tapped the metal Gastown sigil pinned to his own chest, then pointed at Ballard. He waved an admonishing finger.

Ballard went twitchy. “What’s it to you?”

Silence rejoiced. This was a recruit Gastown would be missing. Ballard wasn't the first bighead to flee the refinery’s works. Silence pointed at his sigil again, triple-tapping the oil well in the middle, a reminder that Gastown’s authorities deplored these costly defections. Then, Silence rubbed his fingers together. The People Eater’s old hand gesture for money now meant barter. Or a bounty.

Ballard tripped over a reel of wire on his way to get in Silence’s face. Once he’d untangled himself, he hissed, “Yeah, I got out of the gasworks. I didn’t ask to be born there. I wanted out bad enough to try the ‘Dome, damn it! I would’ve died as a man, not a Gastown tool. This place is – it’s – I’m staying.” Now it was Ballard’s turn to point, right at Silence. “You tell the Citadel I’m from the 'works, you turn me in, and I’ll tell them here who you were. I remember. I can see they don’t know - and you like it like that. You don’t tell, I don’t, either. Deal?”

Silence nearly spat. The Gastown bounty on this man would buy an oldyear off his indenture. Silence glanced over at Rabbit, taking in the tilt of her head as she knelt, listening patiently to the War Pup. When her cheeks curved over her own mask-hidden smile, her eyelashes fluttered.

He brought his thumb and index finger together. OK.

Ballard twitched again when the Repair Boy called, “You done flirting over there? This generator isn’t gonna rewire itself. Rabbit, Ballard’s mates are killing time at the supply depot. They might know.” Silence was out the door before he’d finished, and it was Rabbit’s turn to catch up.

More winding dimness led them to a broad corridor, ventilated for a breath of fresh air. Silence saw a hewn entryway, triple-wide. Outside, a handful of off-duty Treadmill guards and other toughs were loafing, boasting and throwing dice to pass the time. Barging up to types like this in Gastown was asking for trouble. Silence placed himself beside Rabbit before she could ask. He was close enough to hear her nervous swallow. “Those ones there.”

She went up to a trio dicing against an old one-armed man. One was pale and bald, the second dark with a curly mane, and the third, beneath a battered hat, was tanned into oblivion. From their banter, Silence gathered that they were more feral fighters, rolling the bones to win a handsome potato from the old man. Rabbit said, "Excuse me?"

The overtanned feral looked up first. When he saw Rabbit, he touched his hatbrim. “What’s up, water girl?”

The heavyset bald one took in Rabbit's bare midriff, then gaped, revealing missing teeth, as he scanned Silence from top to toe. “How do you know her?”

“I know all the ladies,” he said, standing smoothly. “They should know me, too. Friend of the Devil here. Got my mates Battler and Jindi over in your tower all the time, trying to get with the Milking Mamas.” His friends stood as he named them.

Rabbit asked, “You all fight for the Imperator?” When they agreed, she asked, “Did any of you kill the People Eater?”

Jindi shook his dark head, pleasantly. “I was on m’own, then, not in that road war.”

“I wish,” sighed Friend of the Devil. “Whoever did that is a lucky bastard. Know what I mean? You tell the ladies upstairs I would’ve done it for them.”

“You gotta use your head,” Battler urged. “If I’d done that, see, I would’a bartered on it. Used it to get position’n’Gastown. ‘S gonna happen here, once we win the Imperator’s war for her. I'm planning to be, like, third in charge.”

Rabbit tilted her head. “You know who did?”

Battler expanded. “Ten ferals, at least. Hadda be. No other way to get close, see? The fat man was armored up. He had defences. Gastown Polecats. I figure a couple ferals took the hit against them, opened the fat man up for a real fighting fool to get in---“

Jindi cut off Battler’s bluster with a gesture. “Naw, mate. I heard better from the Rock Riders. One feral.” Jindi lifted a hand. “A man with mutant blood, blood that meant he couldn’t be killed. A road warrior. Claimed by the Wasteland to deliver the Wasteland’s vengeance!”

Friend of the Devil chuckled. “I like his Tell better. No wonder he’s got a girlfriend upstairs.”

Battler scowled again. “You sand-damned bugger, you got in with Tidda? You didn’t tell me?”

“Aw, mate, I knew you’d be like this!” Jindi blocked Battler’s clumsy punch, and they started shouting at each other.

Friend of the Devil ignored them. “None of us three were on the Fury Road. I'm thinking it's one of the Imperator's tribe - the Vuvalini. You know them, right? All women from out of the Wasteland. You’re a girl, too, roll up and ask them.”

The one-armed man rattled the dice at Silence. "Speaking of rolls, care for a throw against me, Gastown? Born lucky, with that face."

Silence scowled in denial. But he didn't see a potato like that every day. He tossed in a guzz token and hunkered down to watch the quartermaster roll a seven. His own turn was as bad as it got: a two. The quartermaster shrugged and added the token to the potential winnings. "Another roll? Could have beginnner’s luck!" Rabbit was plucking at his shoulder, seeming more worried than impressed. So he shook his head, and they went, leaving the ferals settling to the game again.

Rabbit sighed. “I’m trying. I’m sorry. The – the Imperator’s tribe is our best chance. I need to do a job along the way.”

Silence wasn't in a position to disagree. The tunnels were blending together. He had lost track of where they were. Her words made him realize at last that Rabbit was working as they went, feeling and eyeing pipes for leaks. In a half-lit corner, she went into another closet. “Stay here while I...” Somewhere, machinery stopped. He heard the glug of oil or guzz being poured, then the machine starting again, sounding healthier. She was doing something the Citadel needed. No wonder they all answered her.

Silence folded his arms across his chest, warding off his own uselessness while she worked. He went through each reply they’d received, trying to patch the ferals’ wordburgers into something that made sense. A mad man. A fighting fool. A road warrior. Blood and the Wasteland. The answer was there and not there, someone sounding too strong to be true. Then again, the rumors about the Citadel were alive around him: full-life women and pure aqua-cola and Before-time treasures.

Rabbit emerged and caught him brooding at the wall. Soft and reverent, she said, "You see the layers in the rock? The Citadel, it’s inside the oldest stone anywhere. Older than people, older than anything alive. Here long before the Wasteland."

Reminded of Jindi’s words, Silence beckoned for the slate and wrote a query.

_claimed by the wasteland?_

Behind her mask, Rabbit laughed, gently, once. She began to walk on. “The Citadel…Gastown…there’s things they don’t know! That’s why the Citadel had to give the Wretched water. Why they let us up, now. The History Man told us, we Wretched know what they don't. How to starve but live. How to get through the sand storms. Things about the Wasteland.”

As they entered an unlit stretch of the tunnel, an echo caught her voice. “Sometimes the Wasteland takes you. Takes your soul. If you’re cursed, or you’ve done a bad thing, or the Wasteland’s own soul needs you to do something. Some people, the Wasteland kills them. Eats them. Others….they get their lives back…but they’re never like they were.”

An unearthly chill scaled his spine. He'd been wrong, to worry about her turning on him, or the Wretched eating him. The Wasteland would do that. Was the urge that had sent him out from Gastown its first pull? As soon as some grey light returned, he scrawled:

_WHY_

“Maybe the Wasteland is trying to be what it was before?”

_what was it before?_

“Alive. The World.”

She stayed silent while he grappled with this enormity. When they came to the tunnel's exit, he was the one who reached up to grab Rabbit's elbow and pause her. Someone was standing across the light, looking down. Waiting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Citadel is set in Australia's Pilbara - and formations like this in the Pilbara and surrounding areas truly are some of the world's oldest rock formations, from the Archaean period.


	3. Wasteland Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence learns that the Citadel's women tell each other stories, and his deal leaves him counting his gains - with the exception of a certain Wastelander.

Rabbit looked up at the tunnel opening. She hissed to Silence, “War Girls. Like the War Boys, but women.” He released her, handing back the slate. She clipped it back on her belt and began to slide ahead. “It gets complicated, with them. Politics.” He stayed less than an arm’s length behind her.

The white clay of three War Girls stood out in the brownish dimness. One of them called, "Heard you’d passed through. Look at this, the tunnel rat’s --" She cut off when she saw Silence. Two against three, he thought, and the space wider than others, several tunnels converging.

The stockiest War Girl had a deeply blacked forehead and pale, cold eyes. This one was a war woman. "Cool your engines. Something’s up, all right.” Neutrally, she said, “Lots of back and forth today. Including you. You, uh, have any news from the Green Tower? We doing war, or what?"

Rabbit squirmed. Her lisp thickened. "I could tell you ith we weren'th doing war. I can't tell you anything. You get it?"

“Mmm. What about you, Gastown? Your Polecats in on it, too?”

“He can’t thay anything, either,” Rabbit said. “You thaw them all come in. With their warlord.” Silence crossed his arms and did his best to look stoic, like the woman.

“Right.” She took her chin in her hand, musing. “This could be our chance…”

The first War Girl said, to Silence, "What are you doing with a Wretch? We should be showing you around. We're real Citadel."

“That’s right. How about it?” The smallest one, the same height as Rabbit, gave him a louche smile. Her white clay was patchy from hot, fevered skin beneath: one side of her neck had an incipient swelling. A half-life, running down. Like he might, at any time.

Too late, he realized that the War Girls had placed themselves between him and Rabbit, splitting them up. When he tried to catch Rabbit’s eye, the half-life said, “What’s wrong? Too good to answer me?”

He was on the spot. Before he could pick a gesture, her mate snapped, “Talk to her, damn it. She’s not a thing!” She gave his shoulder a push. He smacked her hand away, baring his teeth. Her friend yelped and went to kick him – or to try. Silence flailed out and, as she ducked, caught her temple with his elbow. As his bones rang, he heard her thin scream.

The war woman walled him off from the other two with one solid move. Behind her, Rabbit cried, “I gave you the newsth! They began it!”

She seized Silence’s jacket and shook him, and didn’t seem to feel it when he clawed at her arm with both hands. “Polecats and pipefitters! Psychotics, the whole guzz-stinking lot. You Girls want to waste yourselves here in the Joe-damned Citadel, when we get to do some war? Leave them!” Her black brow hard, she gave Silence a shove against the wall – next to Rabbit. “Get him out of here, cannibal. I give you a count of ten. My lancer’s bruise goes septic, you answer to the Council.”

Silence made an obscene gesture before Rabbit jerked him away from the yelping War Girls, back into near-darkness. “Here. Fast.” This tunnel was tight and badly finished, with a narrow walkway beside a pipe. They reached a broader area where sunlight leaked in. Silence glimpsed more pipes, spread in a broad gutter underfoot. Rabbit’s feet clanged as she leapt onto a metal sheet. She opened a blinding oblong of light. “This way.”

Silence went to follow her – and froze, clinging to the doorframe. This wasn’t a shuttle or a swing bridge. Rabbit was four meters out from the Citadel’s cliff, balanced on a triple row of pipes. Boxed around with metal bars, they spanned the gap between towers. A hand rope swayed beside Rabbit, untouched.

“Come on! We can’t go back!” Silence inched out. The pipes were broad, solid. In Gastown he’d walked along narrower pipes to avoid crowded laneways, the only safe passage for someone alone, and never fallen. But this –

He looked down.

He snapped out of a swaying daze of terror to a hand on his shoulder. Rabbit had seized him, eyes narrowing against the sun. “Hold on to me. We’re lucky again, there’s no wind.” She twined her forearm around his. “Take the rope, your other hand. I move, you move.” Together, they inched across the metal.

Halfway across, a flat lattice was laid over the pipes. It was better, and it was worse, the lattice transparent to the ground below. He changed to wrap one arm around her bare waist. When the wind came alive and picked up her soft hair, he let it blind him. She had to tell him when they’d come to the end. “This door’s bad, help me.” They wrested a rusty handle open. Rabbit shoved him in first, then followed.

Firm stone under his feet made him reel all over again. “You’re not hurt? You’re all right?”

Astonishingly, he was. He turned to her, exuberant, as she heaved back, closing the door.

Rabbit kept her shoulder on it and curled her arms around herself. “I – I – I’m so sorry. We haven’t found – and then –“ She leaned over, face in her hands, gasping with ugly, nasal sobs. He stood without moving. Whenever he’d collapsed like that, he’d wanted to be left alone: but that had been long ago, before he’d hardened up. After a few moments, she straightened herself, dashing at her tear-swollen eyes.

It took Rabbit two tries to speak. When she began, he was baffled. “The History Man says it’s important to have a vision. A dream. Something bigger than ourselves. I have a dream. I do. I’m learning everything I can about the Citadel’s pumps and pipes and water. Some day…I’ll be able to turn it all off and on. Like you do in Gastown. And I’ll dry up the War Tower until they apologize.”

She started at his rasping chuckle. When he could, he scribbled on the slate:

_you’re ok_

She snuffled. “I’ll do. We can go.”

Should he ask? He shouldn’t ask. He was from Gastown. He’d lived with the People Eater. He had to ask:

_are you a cannibal?_

She laughed a little. “No. I was so Wretched before the Immortan fell, I could never barter for it.” The words reminded her of their unfinished deal. She glanced at the mask hanging on his belt. “They work in this tower. The Imperator's tribe…I can’t pronounce their name. They’re always busy. But I can get them to talk to me if I ask the healer to see me.”

Silence stopped cold. _Healer_ was a sneered euphemism in Gastown. He couldn't think of any barter to make an unneeded visit to a flesh mechanic worthwhile. This was too much, outside their deal. Though he was shaking his head and raising his open hands, Rabbit didn’t take his meaning. “No, I’ll do it. You can come in and listen.” She sighed, heavily. “I’m going to have to take my mask off…promise you won’t look.” Silence, who’d seen the People Eater naked, shrugged.

More stairs brought them to the brink of whitewashed chambers. The walls were pierced to let in air and subtle light. Silence assumed they were merely passing through, on the way to the flesh mechanic’s stinking, rinseable rooms. A handsome silver-haired woman greeted Rabbit, who explained Silence with an odd phrase. They were ushered to creamy curtains, then a tiny room, barely more than an alcove. It was only inside that a hint of alcohol and medicine came to Silence’s nostrils. He leaned against the high bench where Rabbit had perched herself, to write again.

_imperator’s tribe here?_

“Yes, one of them is the healer, and the others help her.”

_what’s a support person?_

“That’s their Before-time talk that they like. It means you’re my friend.”

Another old woman, red hair faded, came in. Rabbit gave her a chirpy hello. “You said we could bring a support person. I brought one today.”

This was the flesh mechanic? To Silence, she looked more like a trader or engineer. Her piercing eyes promised the truth. He felt her taking him in, his Gastown sigil, his good clothes, the knife and the rebar nightstick he hadn’t had time to draw earlier. “Is he, now. I might get my own support person, too. Smith!”

Silence had been almost in front of Rabbit. When Smith arrived, he stepped back behind the bench, fast. Like the old women, she was in Wasteland leathers. Like the daring War Girl, she had a vivid smile. And, like the Imperator, she was lean and tall, with a fatal air about her. If this was a Vuvalini, they really were the Imperator’s tribe. Smith settled in with her eye on Silence, moving her rifle to her side.

Rabbit pulled her mask down for an examination, keeping her back very much to Silence while she said something about an earache. Silence kept his eye on the so-called healer. She barely touched Rabbit at all, except to give her cheek a pat. “You were right to come in, looking a bit inflamed. Pre-infection, perhaps. A salt water rinse, three times a day for three days. Can you do that? Good. Let’s do the first one now.”

When the healer moved, Silence blinked. A cracked glass cabinet behind her reflected Rabbit’s unmasked face at an angle. Something had cleft her upper lip into a severe permanent snarl, drawn up over gums and a sharp, askew incisor. It wasn’t pretty. But the edges of it were healthy, clean, compared to the noseless People Eater. These healers must be amazing. Then the old woman was back, blocking the reflection.

After the last spit of her rinse, Rabbit pulled her mask on and said, “You were in the road war with the Imperator?”

The healer, like anyone, was in a good mood after being obeyed. “Yes, dear, but I haven’t got time for stories today.”

“Oh, I only have one question: do you know who killed the People Eater?”

Behind them, Smith suddenly said, “Was it Val? No, wait, Val was the last person he killed. Filthy bastard. It would’ve been Max.”

Silence caught his breath. Rabbit asked, “Is she one of you? From the sand dunes?”

Smith laughed, kindly. “Max was a man. A real Wastelander, but not our tribe. He helped us, for his own reasons, then went his own way. Back to the Wasteland.”

“Smith!” The healer gave her guard an eloquent glare. “Shoot your rifle, not your mouth. I don’t suppose anyone from Gastown wants revenge on who killed their leader?” Everyone turned and looked at Silence. Rabbit’s eyes were wide. Smith took five seconds to swing her rifle around. Silence shook his head in violent denial, holding up open hands.

“He lost his voice in battle,” Rabbit said, helpfully.

“Did he, now.” The healer’s deep eyes were narrowing in recognition, like Ballard’s had, earlier. “A Sister who works with us here went to Gastown. She had stories.” Silence began to sweat. He’d seen the Sisters, been foisted on one to glean what intelligence he could from her pity. Their talk about the Fury Road had led him here. ”Hard to believe such drama. Twisted laws, fights to the death, hired assassins. Beggars like bags of bones. Slaves with their tongues cut out, to keep them from telling tales of their masters’ depravity. Were they true, these stories?”

Pinned by the healer’s gaze, he nodded, very slowly. He opened his mouth, empty of all stories.

“I see they are.” The healer turned away gravely, closing her eyes for an instant. “He’ll be right, Smith. No worries.” The guard stood down and drew the alcove’s curtain open. They began to go. The healer said, “Rabbit, come back – tomorrow. First thing, if you can.” Rabbit apologized, and thanked her, and apologized again.

They went to the crossing shuttle quietly. Silence’s head was full. He had what he came for, and he didn’t have it at all. This Max was alive, real. Those women had seen him, even watched him kill the People Eater. But his actions? Silence held the slate out to Rabbit.

_fighters = right_

_macks could have anything_

_he left? crazy_

Rabbit exclaimed, “I know! The Imperator’s tribe liked…him. I’m not going to try his name, I’ll can't say it. They didn’t want us to traitor him. If he’d stayed, he’d be upstairs and everything. Maybe even in the gardens. They’re the best place in the Wasteland.”

Silence wasn’t so sure about that. He scrawled:

_gtown has all the barter_

_give him anything that still exists_

“That still exists…if he’s in the Wasteland, he’s not nearby. The closest settlers left are the Rock Riders.” She sighed. “I wish the Wasteland could’ve waited and taken him back tomorrow.” She went very quiet for the rest of their return. Silence kept listening for her soft voice or her hum.

Near the scarred doors of the conference room, Rabbit hung her head. “About our deal. We didn’t find him: he's not here. His name isn’t him.”

Her honesty was painful. Silence put too much pressure on the chalk, making it squeal.

_everyone goes through gtown_

_name = man_

_give me your mask & we’re even_

He unclipped the mask from his belt and held it out to her.

Rabbit lit up, even as she asked, “You're sure?”

Silence thrust his mask out again. She took it, and he exhaled. He’d sealed a deal. Not a mere Gastown swap, a clean deal at the Citadel. It made him more than what others told him to do. His shoulders lightened. While Rabbit turned away to change masks, he wrote his last message for her.

When she turned, after sleeking the new mask in place, she offered her old leather mask, holding it by one strap. “You’re sure?” He reached. “I guess, for Gastown, it’s better than nothing.”

Silence thrust the slate back to her. He had killed the nub of chalk, filling it.

_in gtown - establishment tower – ask for silence - show you our pipeworks – get you some bbq – deal again, anytime_

He saw Rabbit read it, then clip it back on her belt slowly, unerased. Rabbit lifted her chin. Her voice was clearer through the new mask. “May the Great Goanna Spirit bring that name to Gastown for you.” He should have laughed, but he felt a chill again. She broke the moment by fingering the carved-bone pass that had opened the Citadel to them. Abruptly, she mumbled, “I still need to work. Bye.” She sidled away with a shy wave.

The dreadlocked guard hit Silence up for a guzz token before letting him back inside. Silence smacked it into his hand, edge down. Back to business as usual. He looked back for Rabbit, missing the zone of their deal already, his hands empty without the slate. But she was gone.

Inside, just as before, the small, dark jewel of a Sister was addressing the group of leaders. Things seemed to have reached a satisfactory conclusion. On the blackboard, the gentle white chalk of Rabbit’s map was overdrawn in angry ochre-red lines, pointing towards war.

Silence tried to slip back behind the two large guards. The woman turned and hissed, “Where’ve you been?”

Silence tapped his head: learning. Then, he lifted the young woman’s mask, like a trophy.

The male guard’s face slackened incredulously. “You and that full life? You?” He shook his head. “Smeg. Ain’t no justice in the Wasteland.” He stood to attention. “They’re making a move. Doors, mate.” The guards went to hold the paired doors so Gastown’s leaders could progress out.

While the doors were still being held, Silence lifted his head and followed them. The Citadel had showed what Gastown owed him. He intended to collect. Like Rabbit, it would take some time. Today was a start. He'd closed a deal, spared a man, gambled, fought, and braved the towers' drop. And thanks to his deal, he knew that bodyguard was wrong.

There was some justice out there: the man who’d killed the People Eater. Max. Silence still didn’t know what he’d do to, or for, this Max, if he got the chance. But he’d never forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over seven thousand words of OC trash. -headdesk - These things happen. I hope you enjoyed wandering around the Citadel. I can't thank you enough for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> While reading the Mad Max-focused issues of the Mad Max comic, I noticed a a blonde, short-haired young person, unnamed, a boy, sitting in misery at the People Eater’s feet at the Gastown Thunderdome. I thought, _Here's an example of queering the villain - either that or a villain expressing the corrupt, orientation-free indulgence of De Sade and the Earl of Rochester. That aside - that poor kid - what a situation - what happened to him?_ Aaaand this is where the OC of Silence came from.


End file.
